Time to Stand-Up (Part 2)
Time to Stand-Up (Part 2)
When we finally stand-up, we find our path forward.
The stakes for my bhad-bhabie-wanna-be-funny recital had just gotten exponentially higher. But after being labelled as “nothin’ but a quitter” by my Grandma Norman after ditching violin lessons, I knew I had to go through with it.
I breathed in and out, and tried to conjure up a silver lining. After all, a bigger performance meant bigger upside.
It was time to mentally upgrade the potential virality of my stand-up set.
Immediately, I traveled through time and space to arrive in the “Big Room” at Comedy Bar…
There I was, standing confidently on stage, scatting for a packed house. As I dropped my final line into the mic, the crowd erupted to their feet. Some fans were visibly shaken by the truest words they’d ever heard spoken, “the eyebrow ring is a silent mating call for mining town bisexuals”.
I had just given an “A Star is Born” performance. The audience was awestruck, with many calling it a “where were you when…” moment.
Holding space, I smiled out to the crowd, clenched my fists, and looked up to the sky. “God is good”, I thought as folksy fans threw roses onto the stage.
I picked up a red rose and called into the mic, “Thank you, Toronnnnnooo! I know everyone says this, but I truly have the best fans! Get home safe tonight!”.
Then, like the Elvis Stojko of comedy, I took a few bows, glid across the stage, and whistled for a mini-zamboni to sweep-up my physical accolades.
I exited into the greenroom to find my vanity overflowing with flowers sent from friends and foe.
“Greenroom? More like greenhouse!”, I quipped to a middle-aged classmate who’s set hadn’t gone quite as well. Recognizing her upset, I wanted to help.
“Ever thought about pottery class?”, I asked.
After a few deep-breaths of hydrangea-air, I stepped out into the lobby. There, I practically tripped over the SNL talent scouts groveling at my feet. With little regard for my person, I quickly became claustrophobic and overwhelmed by the flashing photog’s lights.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” I uttered under my breath.
As I pushed through the pandemonium, a pinstripe suited agent took notice. He approached, draping his fat, heavy arm over my shoulders to usher me through the crowd.
Once we got outside, I felt instantaneous relief—this was until I spotted a boxy, off-white stretch limo parked out front.
“Hop in”, crooned the fat-armed talent agent.
If I wasn’t so eager to exit the public sphere and join 17 of my BFFs at Soho House for celebration and libation, I would’ve denied such a garish carriage. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
I crawled into the limo and gave the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the car was chosen for nostalgic irony? After all, as Canada’s greatest comic, I, more than anyone, would see the humour in cruisin’ around like Pam Anderson’s armband tattoo on its way to the Playboy grotto!
Inside the limo, I took another chance. While I don’t typically recommend entering legal agreements without proper due diligence, there, in the backseat of the Gotti-esque limo, I signed a multi-million dollar contract for a handful of five minute sets across North America (with an optional Australian leg).
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Back on solid ground, I took to memorizing my script. My set would be far from the loosey goosey, crowd-worked comedy that we all admire.
I decided that I couldn’t leave anything up to chance. So, over the next seven days, like an 80’s teen, I practiced my set with a hairbrush in the mirror. I ran lines in the shower. I video recorded myself and dared to watch the replays. I even wrote-in unnecessarily long “pause for laughter” beats. I was all in.
Note: In the name of these stand-up recordings alone, I’d like to publicly declare that in the event of my untimely death, Ima’ need all of my electronics burned and buried. Done and dusted. Melted down, drunk, and pissed into the Mariana Trench. This troubling footage, alongside any personal journaling and original song lyrics (no, I don’t sing, don’t play an instrument) were never meant for this cruel, cruel world.
On the night of the big show, I had done all the preparation I could do. I arrived at Comedy Bar a cool 90-minutes early, and wore a high-collared shirt to disguise my “public speaking rash”—a gift from my 99.99% Northern European ancestry.
On site, reality hit. I was about to perform comedy, alone, for 150 strangers. My stomach cramped into knots and my body turned cold. I ran to the bathroom to unload the first round of liquid diarrhea.
Note: In the famous words of Beyoncé, “y'all can’t get down like you from Houston without a violent pre-show shit!”.
At the bar, I bought a tall can to quell my nerves. Then, I settled into the greenroom to go over my script for the 1000th time.
Tacked onto the greenroom’s bulletin board was the show’s running order. My name was last on the list. This meant I’d be closing out the show. Not only would I have to watch each classmate sink or doggy paddle, I’d be the de facto headliner—a position generally reserved for someone who can resuscitate the dead.
I processed the added pressure into my own medical miracle: a fiery shart.
At 8 o’ clock sharp (not shart), the intro music blared and the spotlight shone. Dawn took to the stage to cover housekeeping, warn against any audience heckling, and to perform a few non-dick jokes.
With the crowd warmed up, Dawn brought out the first comedy virgin to be made a woman. Our recital had officially begun.
Eagerly, I listened in from backstage. I could hear that the first act was choppy, but the audience was generous. Frankly, they offered more positive reinforcement than recommended for a joke about “being ghosted by an actual ghost”.
I returned to the bathroom to release more fire.
As the show ran on, I was numb to the successes and failures of my predecessors. As each classmate left the stage, they exhaled dramatically. Their relief seemed to tack on to my own stress. I felt sick and panicked. The pressure of closing out this amateur hour felt greater than anything before.
I tried to focus, but couldn’t. I was terrified that I would go blank and forget my monologue and pre-written “pauses for laughter”. With a pen, I anxiously tried to write queues onto my hand. The ink couldn’t set over my clamminess.
With the last comic mid-set, I got into position behind the heavy curtain that buffered the stage and greenroom. I was in performer's purgatory. Time slowed as I stood silently in the in between—the space where something fucked up is in motion but the outcome is unknown.
My heart raced. I was light-headed and numb. I struggled to catch my breath. It was the closest to a panic attack I’d ever been.
Before I could faint or run into oncoming traffic, the previous act brushed past me. I absorbed their drive-by anxiety, as the exhaled deeply.
Slicing through the curtain, I could hear flashes of the words, “welcome”, “final act”, and “Grace McClure”.
It was time to stand up.
As I rambled onto the stage, I panned out for a familiar face. The lights were blindingly bright but the audience was pitch dark. I could feel the fullness of the room, but could only make out abstract human shapes. It was other-worldly, like being pulled into the “tunnel of light”, as described by every southern-drawled near-deather.
I wanted to yell out, “Is anybody out there?”, but it wasn’t in my script.
Instead, I anchored myself to the microphone stand and hovered stiffly. After what felt like minutes of silence, I coaxed my first words to come out.
Then, I entered out-of-body survival mode. Autopilot clipped on and I took the passenger seat to my own performance. It felt like driving somewhere familiar, zoning out, and not being present to each left and right turn or baby squirrel you run over.
Note: Don’t mention this “I don’t remember driving” phenomenon to my “Wheels” driving instructor, Shanum. Shanum taught driving lessons in an old two-door Honda Civic, was constantly clearing his throat, and reeked of Axe body spray. He once opened his trunk to expose dozens of highly-flammable “Dark Temptation'' aerosol cans—revealing that the students of Georgetown were essentially learning to drive in a tanker truck. If you’re aware of any class-actions, please call my personal hotline: 1-800-PAPI-SMEARS.
I rode along in my performance’s sidecar, letting my hairbrush trials take care of business.
There were some laughs, albeit not the uproarious kind. There were also fumbles, but I couldn’t measure their impact.
When my final line was spoken, I took a pause and exhaled deeply. I allowed the promised wave of relief to wash over me. I had executed my five-minute set while resisting the urge to pee my pants—the litmus test for determining “dream or reality?” in a pinch.
Before leaving the stage, I scanned the ground. There wasn’t a single rose to graciously gather. I smiled out into the abyss, gave a flat palm, then disappeared through the curtain portal to safety.
After the show, I was abuzz. It was as though I’d been given a jolt of extra life to make up for the five minutes I spent out-of-body. It felt like the first day after salmonella poisoning.
As I gathered with the townspeople over cheer and ale in the lobby, everything felt shiny and new. The grass was greener, teeth were whiter, and even the bleakest of bald patches were graciously coloured in.
Generously, I asked man, woman, and child, “porcelain veneers, perchance?”, “hair plugs?”. Like Oprah, I was practically chanting, “for tonight and tonight only, you get a tuft of hair!”.
The after-glow of stand-up was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It was a cocktail of ecstasy, like a gift from the Universe for stepping into the intuitive unknown.
Back at home, I struggled to decipher whether the live-wire high was the result of surviving a train-wreck, a reward for being daring, or both.
I wasn’t sure, but committed the next few years to finding out.
When we act on our inner voice, even though it may edge us toward a panic attack, we step out of safety. By choosing to do the hard thing, we rewrite what’s possible for us. We create our own luck.
When we live out our imagination, we put our shameless self in the driver’s seat. And while we may not know it right away, we’re travelling to our next destination—a place we hoped to see, but weren’t quite sure how.